


hang-ups

by williamsage42



Series: hang-ups [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hank Anderson is a dad, Hopeful Ending, I'm Bad At Tagging, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, big trigger warning boys?, not even I know what's going on here, there we go lads it's got a shitty 2nd chap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-10-29 01:05:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17798156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamsage42/pseuds/williamsage42
Summary: Connor liked his pink socks.“Woah, Connor. Those socks are a bit of a statement, huh?”He never wore those socks again. Sometimes he would look down at his feet just to make sure he wasn’t wearing them, even when he knew he’d put on completely different socks that day. It wasn’t logical, but it always felt like everything was a mistake waiting to happen.





	1. Demarcation

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know what the fuck I’ve given Connor in this fic, but whatever the hell it is, it’s just what I have, basically. 
> 
> If you have a suggestion of how I could classify it (just so I can put it in the tags) that’d be great. 
> 
> Goddamnit Teagan, if you read this I will know about it and you will be ritualistically sacrificed to our true lord and saviour Gary Mitchell.

Connor likes his pink socks. 

 

Hank. “Woah, Connor. Those socks are a bit of a statement, huh?”

 

He never wears those socks again. Sometimes he looks down at his feet just to make sure he _isn't_  wearing them, even when he knows he’s put on completely  _ different _ socks that day.

 

Connor likes his hair imperfect. 

 

Hank. “Hair’s a little messy today, huh kid?”

 

Every day from then on he spends an approximate 15 minutes perfecting his artificial hair with a gel product in the morning, avoiding anything at all making contact with it for fear it would mess it up. Occasionally, a sort of odd panic takes him and he’ll have to go to the mirror and make sure everything was neat and perfect. 

 

Unidentified officers. “What’s with the android checking itself out all the time?”

 

He never looks in a mirror again unless he's at home and Hank was out or asleep or passed out. He always spends a good 2 minutes checking his surroundings on all sides before discreetly checking his hair in any reflective surface that wasn’t a mirror. This was always followed by a quick check to make absolutely sure he isn't wearing the pink socks, even when he knows he isn't. 

 

He can't help it. 

 

Hank. “Kid, what’s wrong? You’re LED’s always yellow these days.”

 

“Nothing.”

 

He removes his LED. 

 

A coworker. “Wow, I didn’t think androids could  _ have  _ messy handwriting.”

 

Connor certainly doesn't hand-write anything again after that. Not unless it's in private. He does it all digitally, despite missing the feeling of pen on paper. He thinks he can do it like this, but it begins to consume his thoughts, and within 24 hours he can't stand it any longer. He finds himself obsessively rounding up everything he had ever written by hand, transferring it to digital if needed and sweeps it all into a trash bag. Once he has everything; notes on files for cases, shopping lists, notebooks, his diary, and placed it all into the garbage bag, he ties the bag off and wraps it in another bag. Then he empties the garbage, places the parcel of his writing at the very bottom and refills the trash over it. 

 

There. Fixed. 

 

Civilian, unidentified. “I hate it when those fucking things pretend to be human.”

 

He starts wearing his Cyberlife jacket again. He refuses to take it off, even when he goes into statis mode. He stops going into statis lying down, and takes to entering the ‘sleep mode’ sitting up, in a rigid position most humans would describe as uncomfortable. 

 

He doesn’t display human emotion in public anymore. It hurts to suppress it all, but he has to. He doesn’t know why, but he has to. 

 

A coworker. “It’s ridiculous the way he talks like he’s in a cliche police drama.”

 

He avoids talking whenever possible. If he must talk, he takes time to carefully select his words, and even so they come out a confusing but legible mess as he attempts to avoid his pre-programmed, ridiculous cliche phrases. He mustn’t say anything wrong, everything that comes out of his mouth must be normal. It can’t be like he’s a film character, it  _ has to be right.  _

 

Reed. “Tin-Can’s still trying to steal our jobs when it could be doing literally anything else now.”

 

The next day, as Connor tries to exit Hank’s car to enter the station, he finds his foot frozen above the curb. He can’t move it. He moves it back into the car and tried again, and again, but he just ends up stuck in a repetitive jerky motion. 

 

“I don’t want to go to work today,” he tells Hank, and the Lieutenant looks like he wants to protest, but he seeks Connor’s eyes and just silently nods, letting the android drive himself back. 

 

As soon as Connor gets back to Hank’s place, he emails a resignation letter to Fowler, feeling the ghost of his now-gone LED glow yellow. 

 

Civilian, unidentified. “I can’t believe those damn toasters have the audacity to strut around in public after fucking us all over.” 

 

He refuses to leave the house. When Hank insists, he does everything to get out of any outing he can. Eventually Hank tries to actually drag him out of the house, grabbing his wrist and pulling him along, Connor starts to beg, and then he starts to scream, clinginging to the doorframe. 

 

Connor pretends not to see the pure, burning concern in Hanks eyes as the man relents and lets the android stay inside. 

 

Hank. “Jesus Christ, you need to get outside more, people are asking if you’re dead.”

 

He goes for walks in the park twice a day. Exactly 60 minutes each, at exactly 6am and 3pm. People stare at him, and he feels their gazes crawling over him like foreign, unwanted hands. He’s constantly looking around him, checking all the people in his surroundings to make sure he’s as unobserved as can be, and that he knows who’s looking at him if anyone is. When they look, where from. 

 

A little girl trips over and starts crying, bleeding red from skinned knees. Her mother is nowhere to be seen, and Connor leans down, helping her up, whispering comfort to her until the girl’s mother finally finds them and rips the girl from Connor as though the android were some kind of peadophile. He never goes near a child again, because what if people think he’s a bad person? 

 

Civilian witness to the event, unidentified. “They pretend they can understand. They can’t even feel pain themselves.” 

 

He turns his under-skin sensors up to 120%. At night, every night from then, he drags a blade across different parts of his body methodically. He feels it. It  _ hurts.  _

 

There. Now he understands. 

 

Dogwalker, unidentified. “They should all just be deactivated if you ask me.”

 

That night, he takes of his shirt (with scissors, still refusing to remove his Cyberlife jacket from over it) and runs his fingers over his thirium pump regulator delicately. He could pull it out. He find’s Hank’s revolver and points it at his head before putting it back. He finds a kitchen knife and lines it up with the most crucial thirium tube in his body, before putting it back. 

 

He could deactivate. He knows how. Why doesn’t he just do it? 

 

“I’m really worried about you, son. You’re acting… it’s concerning.” 

 

He makes note never to allow Hank to see what’s going on inside his head. He’ll hide it, if it’s the last thing he does Hank must never, ever see. Because nobody’s allowed to notice that Connor is fucked up, that he’s weird, a freak, a fucking toaster, a broken machine, flawed, imperfect, broken machine, broken machine, broken machine, 

 

It wasn’t logical, but it always felt like everything that involved him at all was a mistake waiting to happen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I continue? I know I left it on a bit of a cliffhanger but I’m busy with college and shit. It feels a little mad, honestly. I just saw it was international fanworks day and decided to post. If you think I should continue, please comment ideas about what should happen and I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise anything long and plotty, though. I’ve got my own long, plotty fics in the works and they’re still incomplete so this is just a side-project to refresh me.


	2. Fahrenheit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The continuation that people asked for 
> 
> Might be a little disappointing but I tried, boys

Connor sits up rigidly on the couch, about to enter statis mode when Hank marches up to him purposefully. 

 

“Alright, kid,” the Lieutenant said. “What’s been going on with you lately?” 

 

The android, remembering what he told himself, puts on a winning fake smile. “Nothing.”

 

“Ok, it’s just you’ve been acting a little weird,” Hank says. “Why don’t you want to go to work anymore?” 

 

“I just… didn’t want it to seem like I was stealing human jobs,” Connor explains. 

 

“You don't have to follow missions or whatever, you know. Don’t need to do everything people say,” Hank says in response. 

 

Connor closes his eyes and sits still, eyebrows knitting together. 

 

“What are you doing?” Hank asks. 

 

“I’m checking to see if I still have cyberlife protocols,” Connor answers. 

 

“See, that's what I mean! Don't take everything to heart, okay? I didn’t mean like you weren’t deviant or something.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Connor asks. 

 

“It doesn't matter what other people say about things, Connor. Just ignore it,” Hank tells him.

 

Silence extends on afterwards.  _ I can’t stop it _ , Connor thinks.  _ I can’t help it.  _

 

“Why do you keep wearing your jacket?” Hank asks. 

 

Connor doesn’t answer, and Hank sighs. 

 

“You  _ need  _ to talk ‘bout things, Connor.” 

 

“I did not want people to think I was pretending to be human,” Connor whispers. 

 

“What?” Hank asks. That doesn’t sound like something Connor would think on his own.  “Those are definitely someone else’s words. Who told you that?”

 

Connor answers, “It’s something I overheard.” 

 

“Shit, you don't have to listen to everyone, Connor. Now take that jacket off, this is absolutely ridiculous.”

 

Connor hears the sentence and immediately unzips the jacket, pulling it off and folding it up. He’s not wearing anything underneath and Hank runs a hand over his own face, wishing he knew what was going on with the android. 

 

He looks at the android and notices the stains of unevaporated thirium on his arms, the artificial skin is swirling in and out of existence, phasing between a shiny white and the artificial skin tones. Whenever the white is revealed, visible scratches through the plastic can be seen. 

 

“What the fuck is going on there, Connor?”

 

Connor inhales. Though he doesn’t need air in his lungs to speak, it’s what his behavioural module tells him to do. “Someone said I couldn’t understand pain so I rectified the situation.” 

 

Hank feels a tightness in his chest and swallows. “Jesus fuck, Connor… don't listen to everything everyone says, ok? And don’t… don’t do that shit, yeah? Please.” 

 

Connor tilts his head to the left. “Clarify.”

 

“Just be who you want to be, okay? It doesn't matter what other people think. Stop  _ listening  _ to  _ everyone.  _ Don't you want to be happy?” 

 

Connor furrows his brow. “Which one’s happy?” he asks. 

 

_ What… fuck,  _ Hank thinks. “Damnit, son,” he breathes, genuinely attempting not to cry at the android’s… predicament. He grabs Connor and pulls the kid into a hug.  

 

“What have I done wrong now?” Connor asks him.    
  


“Nothing!” Hank says a bit too forcefully. “Well, just… talk to me about it some time, yeah?” Hank says quieter, feeling a tear drip from his eye and trying to hold his sympathy back as Connor beings to look very disappointed in himself. “Tell me when you feel like… i don't know, fixating on somebody else’s problem, yeah?”

 

Connor didn’t like that. It seemed too true. As the android walks away he hears the Lieutenant muttering, “Fuck, don’t do this to me, son.” 

 

He thinks Hank is asleep when he steals the gun. The cold tip of it seems  _ wrong  _ pressing against his chin,  but this seems like the only thing he can do. 

 

Hank was apparently not asleep. Stumbling into the room, the man stares at him in horror. “What the fuck are you doing?”

 

“I appear to be one of the primary causes of your emotional stress. I’m rectifying the situation,” Connor explains. 

 

“This needs to stop, Connor,” Hank almost begs him. “It doesn’t matter what people say. OK? It’s all just bullshit, yeah?” 

 

Connor frowns, and then simply enters statis mode without another word. 

 

Hank gets back into his room and pulls out his cellphone, making a call. 

 

“Kamski,” the man on the other end introduces. 

 

“This is Lieutenant Anderson, can you fix Connor?” Hank asks. 

 

“I’m not a repair service,” Kamski says, and it’s followed by a period of silence, and then a sigh. “What’s wrong with him?”

 

“He hasn’t worn his pink socks since I told him they were a little bold and he pulled a gun on himself because he  _ didn’t  _ want to stress me out.”

 

“Right. How am  _ I  _ supposed to help?” 

 

“I don't know,” Hank says. “Can’t you plug him into something and type a bunch of binary and fix him up?” 

 

“I’m an engineer, yes. And a programmer. I’m not a wizard. Take him to a shrink, Lieutenant, not a god _. _ ” Kamski hangs up. 

 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hank mutters. 

 

But he listens to the man’s advice. 

 

Connor… doesn’t like it. There’s something about going there and being  _ psychoanalysed  _ like a person that sets of a bunch of his little rules. 

 

But it works. Slowly. 

 

**12 months later.**

 

He still doesn’t wear the pink socks. He still glances around to make sure he’s aware of who’s watching him and who isn’t. 

 

But it’s going to be okay, even though he panics sometimes. And it’s hard to go to work some days. 

 

Reed. “Hey, dipshit. What kind of madman told you that shirt  _ suited _ you?”

 

Connor. “What kind of madman evidently stomached sex with  _ your  _ mother?” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

H̷̢̩̲̜̳̰͉̝̜͔͎̤̗́͑̾͌͊̿̎̈́͝͠ͅe̸̙̩̹̮̰̥̪͕̻̲̞̓̒͑̾͛͒̀̕͝ ̸͕̳̰͇̲̫͓̝̟͖̪̻̤̈́͆̆̃̎͐̒͋͘͜͝n̴̺̯̘̔͊̒͐̾e̸͇̖̭̱̗͊̑͌̃̂̿̿̌͋͐̑̏͒͘v̸̨̡̝̪̫̺̠̽̽̆͋̚e̶͙͖̜̗̼̬͈̘͋̃͜r̵̨̛͕̜͖̤̹̹͔̖̩̬̣̼̆̈́̏͒̄̈̇͊͂̔ ̵̡̛͙̞͚̘̞̳͚̝̟͚̥͕̗̪͒̋̒̑̃̆̓̎w̸͉̭͓͉̆́͂͘e̷̲͙̰̯̭͊́̒͊̎̎̈́̋̌̈̾̈͘͝ä̶̛̲̑̈́̇͛̏͗̽̂̕̕͘͠r̵̗̤̱̩̊̾̃̉̌͛̍̽͊̅͝s̷͕̖̙̳͍̤̜͓̺̯̩͗̋̈̋̋͂̈́̃̓̈́̚͘̕͠ ̸̦͔̼̤̘͈͖̼͇̼̣͋̋̉͊̄̈́͐͘̕̚ț̷̲̪̺͙̼̅h̶̡̼̭̿̂͆͆͂̚̕͝a̵͚̞̳̅̐̇̇̊̓̊͂̚̚̚ţ̶͕͇̬̭͓̣͕͙̳̘̝͔̞͔̋̈́̽̓̓̐̓̿̐̇͆͑͗ ̷̢̛͕͉̱͎̖͔̮̘̙̫̳̳͑̽́̑̆͌͑̚̕s̴͚̜̹͈̘̼̳͖͌̌̅̏͆̈̾̑̒̍̈̕͘͝ͅh̶͎̖̬͚̞̪̜̫̆̒̈́̐̃̐̓̒̇͗̏͠ͅį̴̢̧͚̟̗̤͓̪̬̩̊̓͐̂͐̑̂̎̕͘͜ͅr̴̳̤̙̤̊͐̿t̵̡̗̯̫̟̘̺̼̹̽ ̵̹̮͕͉̺̃̃̽̈́̿̿͘ͅą̵͕̹̪͎̰̯̲̯̰͉̭̤̘͌̿̏̊̐ͅģ̸̢̬͎͙̥̜͖͓̲͑̎̎̏̕ͅa̶̛̮͔̟̟̙̳͇̱͙͍͂̋̐̅͛͒̄̕̚͝į̵̦͈̬̟̤̜̹͖͙͎͐͌̃̽̅͊̈́̄̏̕̚͘͠ņ̴͉̲͑̈̂̚

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Hank, I need to talk to you about something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus fuck what a mess 
> 
> Oh well there it is
> 
> I might make a series of similar works (basically me projecting onto Connor)  
> What do you think of that?


End file.
